I Once Was Lost, But Now Am Found
by BlueRiverSteel
Summary: Tag to 10x03, Soul Survivor. In the aftermath of the Blood Cure, Sam and Dean deal with turbulent emotions and the need to rediscover how to be brothers again.


**I Once Was Lost, But Now Am Found**

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><p>Disclaimer: I own nada!<p>

A/N: Shameless angst and comfort, in the aftermath of the Blood Cure. Enjoy!

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><p>"<em>You look worried, fellas."<em>

It was an old tactic, one Dean had utilized for years during tense situations—something smartass or light to ease the strain in the air. He did it now, in spite of his own overwhelming emotion, in hopes of convincing the two men before him that he was indeed…_himself_.

It worked. Sammy's face lit, a relieved smile lifting the corners of his mouth momentarily. His little brother's gaze flicked between Dean and Cas, his expression so readable he may as well have shouted the words.

_It worked._

"Welcome back, Dean," he said, sounding every bit as tired as Dean figured he must be.

After all, he hadn't been around to take care of his kid for months now. And look at him—thin and drawn and injured….there it was, that familiar punch of guilt in his gut, only so much worse this time because oh god—

He remembered _everything_.

He'd been a _demon_. A freaking hellspawn, the very thing he and Sammy had spent their lives hunting, had killed without an ounce of mercy or shame.

And for those who deserved more than simple fists or knives, he had wielded words just as poisonous, just as malicious. For Crowley, who'd deserved it; and Ann Marie, who hadn't; and Sammy…

_Oh god, Sammy._

The words rang in his head, and he had no idea how he would ever, _ever_ take them back:

"_Which of us is really the monster, Sammy?"_

"_You might possibly be worse than me!"_

"_I chose the King of Hell over you."_

"_My mother would still be alive if it weren't for you."_

"_Your very existence snuffed the life out of my life."_

He felt the blows as if they'd been dealt to him rather than to his brother, as if he hadn't been the one to inflict them…

_God, Sam. How do I even begin?_

His little brother was surprisingly gentle as he released the cuffs, untied the thick ropes that bound Dean. One-handed, he pulled Dean's arm round his good shoulder and made to help him out of the chair.

"Come on, Dean, let's get you out of here."

He felt the strain in Sam's thin frame and pulled away slightly, taking his own weight so that his kid didn't have to.

_That_ lasted about two seconds.

His legs trembled, knees weak and stomach flipping, tiny tremors wrecking his balance and strength. He stumbled, going to one knee and wincing at the pain as much as the blow to whatever was left of his dignity. "Shit," he muttered as Sam moved closer again, wordlessly supporting his right side, while Cas showed up on the left and hooked an arm around Dean's torso. Dean blinked furiously at their silent aid, willing himself to hold it together.

But it felt like two months' worth of emotion crashing down on him with all the force of a brick wall, and the eldest Winchester wasn't sure how long he could manage it without falling apart.

Luckily, the trip to his room, despite all three of them being weaker than they ought to be, was short and rather uneventful. Cas made himself scarce pretty quickly, which Dean appreciated—he really needed some time with Sam to try and determine just how much damage he'd done to his relationship with the kid.

But Sam was unusually quiet as he settled Dean on the bed, brought over some of the papers and books he'd stashed on the desk the day they'd gone after Metatron…

It seemed like a thousand years ago now.

"How do you feel?" Sam's voice was quiet, tentative, as if he wasn't really sure what to say to his brother. Dean looked up at him, finally meeting his eyes for the first time since he woke up human again, and what he saw nearly undid every thread of composure he had left.

His brother's hazel eyes were guarded, cautious. There was hope there, behind the wall the kid had erected, Dean could see it; wild hope and relief so intense he was surprised Sam was still standing.

Maybe they _did_ need a bit of time apart, to process everything. Maybe he could talk to Sam later, when his kid had some food in him, had gotten some rest, didn't look like he was about to fall over any minute.

Speaking of food…

"I'm kind of hungry," he answered. "And you look like you could eat too."

Sam blinked, took a step back, looking for all the world like he'd just been gutted. Dean stopped, thinking he must have said something wrong, trying to figure out what could've prompted such a reaction.

"Or—not?" he stammered, cursing his own idiocy. Sam was probably more tired than him—demon juice was pretty potent, and he hadn't felt tired since he woke up in this bed weeks ago—probably had no desire at all to go somewhere for food or cook a meal. "It's fine," Dean said hurriedly. "I can whip something up real quick, you should get some rest."

Sam chuckled, a heavy hand on his shoulder preventing Dean from rising from the bed. "There's nothing in the kitchen; supply runs haven't been that important the last few days—"

_Because I had you in the dungeon, trying to fix you, _went unsaid.

"—And that burger place you like is just a few minutes away. I'll be right back."

"Wait, Sammy…" Dean didn't want the kid to leave without knowing. Sam stopped in the door, turned back to him, expectantly.

Dean wouldn't let him down. Not this time.

"Thanks."

_For everything_ went unsaid, but Sam smiled, and Dean knew he heard it.

"No problem."

And then Dean Winchester was alone, for the first time since waking up human again.

The trauma of the last several weeks didn't wait, Dean barely managed to hold it together until Sam shut the door before breaking completely.

The tears started, and Dean couldn't find the strength to stop them. Already he missed it—the free, detached carelessness he'd experienced as a demon. It had been simultaneously a relief and a terror—terror he couldn't really feel, because he had felt nothing at all, for anyone or anything except himself.

It was confusing; he was grateful beyond measure Sam had fixed him, but he missed not hurting, not feeling guilty, not _hating_ himself…

Dean gave up, let the tears fall, let the gasping breaths sound in his small room, let his stomach churn with guilt and relief and disgust.

What else could he do?

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><p>Sam fought the temptation to pull the Impala over and bawl like an oversized baby as he drove toward home. The smell of greasy diner food was heavy in the small confined space, and while normally it would make him vaguely queasy, today he welcomed it.<p>

Dean had been _hungry_. Had offered to make himself food so Sam could rest, even while he could barely stand on his own two feet.

Sam bit his tongue, hard, against the sting in his eyes.

He wouldn't cry, he _couldn't_. It'd be just his luck to get Dean back and then wrap the Impala around a tree.

His brother would never forgive him. He'd yell and curse, probably hit Sam, then set to work restoring his Baby.

And Sam wasn't sure if he'd dread or welcome that reaction, honestly. _Any_ sort of reaction from Dean, good or bad, was at this point enough to make Sam want to break down entirely with relief.

_He had his brother back_. Angst, guilt, short temper and all.

Sam had nearly lost it when he'd seen _his_ Dean in those blinking green eyes again, _finally_. He'd wanted to laugh, cry, hug him, dance, and scream all at once.

"Welcome back, Dean," was what he'd managed instead.

Helping Dean back to his room, though, was what had nearly done Sam in. The man had pulled away when he tried to help him up—part of Sam wanted to feel rejected at that, but he knew the real reason for it, and it hurt him as much as it healed him:

Dean knew Sam was injured, knew supporting him would be painful and exhausting for the younger man, and had wanted to spare Sam his weight. It had worked about as well as Sam expected, and thank god Cas had been there to intervene, but everything about that so-familiar train of thought went far toward convincing Sam his brother really was himself again.

Dean had hesitated on the threshold to his room, digging in his heels and nearly taking down all three of them. Sam's throat had been too tight to manage words, much as he wanted to, knowing that Dean had to be remembering waking up here as a demon, and God only knew how _that_ had felt…but Cas had taken over instead.

"It is all right, Dean, Sam and I are here, we've got you."

Sam had felt Dean flinch beneath his touch at the words, knew the guilt had already started eating at his big brother, and wished with all his heart it had given the man some time to adjust first. Cas had disappeared not long after they got Dean settled on the bed, and Sam busied himself doing useless things around the room; too overwhelmed to say anything, but not wanting Dean out of his sight.

Not yet.

Maybe not _ever_.

"How are you feeling?" he'd finally managed, though he nearly choked on the words. Dean had looked at him then, the expression so familiar—love and gratitude and emotion that roiled just under the surface—that it had broken Sam's heart clean in two.

And Dean's assertion that he was hungry—made after he'd looked Sam up and down almost appraisingly—had been the blow that just about floored him.

Dean was already so firmly back in Big Brother mode, and Sam had missed him so fiercely, was so beaten down and exhausted and _worn out_, that he'd had to make a quick exit just so Dean wouldn't see the tears that flooded his eyes in the hallway where he paused before going to tell Cas how his brother was.

Finally, Sam parked the Impala in the garage of the Batcave, slumping against the steering wheel in relief as he let the reality of the day sink in a bit more.

_Dean was back._ Sam had succeeded; he had saved his big brother.

He felt surprisingly little pride over the fact—he'd done some seriously horrifying things in the process, and Dean knew it—but he would do it all over again, and he knew it.

Did that make him a bad person?

Sam couldn't find the capacity to care.

Right now, he just wanted to sit with Dean while they both chowed down on burgers and warm cherry pie, drank a beer or ten, and got some freaking _sleep_.

Nodding to himself, promising to give the Impala a cursory cleaning before Dean saw her, Sam grabbed the grease-stained paper bag and got out.

He let a smile spread across his face as he neared Dean's door, closed most of the way but not latched. "Hey, buddy, got your—"

Sam stopped as he walked in, tears making another appearance as he took in the room.

_God_, he needed to get himself together.

Dean had fallen asleep waiting for him, evidently, though that wasn't what broke Sam's heart anew. It was the tear tracks he could see so clearly on still-freckled cheeks, the way Dean's arms were folded protectively over his stomach and he was curled up on top of the blankets—Sam recognized the posture.

Dean had broken down, and Sam hadn't been here to help him through it.

Sam set the bag down softly on the desk and pulled the one chair in the room over to the side of Dean's bed. It wasn't comfortable, not to sleep in, and he'd regret it in the morning with the neck cramp he was going to have, but Sam wasn't about to leave Dean alone again.

He had _just_ gotten his brother back, he was damn well going to be there when he woke up. Sam let his eyes drift shut, thankful he was sapped enough that sleep would overtake him easily.

And it did.

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><p>Dean woke to the sound of his stomach growling audibly, started upright. He didn't remember falling asleep, though he should've figured it'd happen the moment he succumbed to the desire to lie down while he cried like a freaking infant…<p>

The smell of food—_burgers, oh god_—made its way into his brain, and Dean eyed the greasy bag sitting on his desk.

They were probably cold; he wasn't sure how long he'd been out, and he wondered for a split second where Sam was before he heard a deep intake of breath that told him he wasn't alone in the room. Dean felt the corner of his mouth twitch as he took in the sleeping form of his brother beside his bed—a tiny smile that quickly turned to a frown when he noticed Sam's long limbs and slumped shoulders, all folded into the small wooden chair that usually sat in the corner of his room.

The kid didn't look comfortable at _all_.

Well, he was awake now, and starved, so he'd take the chair—of course, getting Sam moved to the bed could be difficult in his current…_precarious_…physical state, but he refused to ask Cas for help.

He could care for his own kid brother, for god's sake.

"Come on, Sammy," he murmured, standing slowly before slinging the younger man's good arm around his neck and lifting gently—just enough to move him the six inches to the mattress. Sam snorted and twitched, nearly sending them both to the carpet, but Dean managed to recover so his brother just hit the mattress a little harder than intended instead. Sam gasped, head popping up as he woke slightly.

"Easy, Sam, it's me. You're okay," Dean soothed. "Just lie down, you'll be more comfortable on the bed. It's fine, everything is fine…"

Sam responded to his soft tone, as he always did, by closing his eyes with a sleepy moan. Dean grinned and with Sam's top half situated, lifted the kid's legs onto the mattress. It was more of a strain than it ought to have been, and Dean sat heavily in the chair for a second to catch his breath before even trying for the desk and bag of cooling food that tempted his empty stomach.

"D'n?" Sam muttered groggily, blinking slowly as he woke.

"No no," Dean hastened to assure his little brother, squeezing Sam's forearm. "It's okay, I'm right here. Just going to eat, my stomach is growling loud enough to wake the entire bunker. You sleep, little brother."

Sam sighed heavily, adjusting himself more comfortably on the bed, and Dean couldn't hold back the smile that tugged at his lips.

To be fair, he didn't bother trying, either.

"You're…'kay?" Sam slurred, already most of the way asleep again.

_God_, he'd missed this kid. The guilt that had broken him earlier made an appearance, but it was quickly smothered by the simple, profound warmth that made his chest ache as he smiled down at his sleeping brother.

"Yeah, Sammy, I'm okay."

Sam settled then, a small smile spreading over his sleepy face. "Good. Jerk."

Dean choked back a fresh bout of tears—happy ones this time.

"Bitch."


End file.
